


Vast Mojave Sky

by obstinatrix



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Originallyhere. For the prompt 'JDM, masturbation, leather', which I ran with a little oddly. Bonus jacking-off-on-an-empty-highway!





	

[](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/profile)[**blindfold_spn**](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/) fills! When I started this one, I assumed it would probably end up as Jeff/Jensen, but in fact it seems to have emerged as Jeff/Mojave Desert, or possibly Jeff/America. Jeff/America/motorcycle? YMMV. I don't even know.

 **Fic** : Vast Mojave Sky  
**Pairing** : JDM solo (see caveats above...)  
**Rating** : NC-17  
**Words** : ~1k  
**Prompt/Summary** : Originally [here](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/7359.html?thread=8200383#t8200383). For the prompt 'JDM, masturbation, leather', which I ran with a little oddly. Bonus jacking-off-on-an-empty-highway!

Slap bang in the middle of the Mojave and Jeff's sweat-soaked, thrumming, the wicked vibrations of the engine thundering in his ribs. The desert is hot, empty. It stretches out scrubbily around him in this yawning swathe of dead-dirt wilderness, and Jeff could be alone, here. Jeff could be discovering America, marking out the Morgan line.

The thought makes him laugh and he shifts, lets his thighs splay open a little further around the saddle of the Harley. It's kind of awe-inspiring, this loneliness. Jeff's hair is curling stickily over his collar, his shirt and leathers moving palpably, uncomfortably over his skin, making all his sensory neurones wake up and take notice. _I am Man_ , is what they're getting. _I am conqueror._

God, it's dumb, but Jeff can feel his dick starting to fill, lifting from the root, steady and sure. Some primal urge, wanting to claim, to mark up this empty landscape as Jeff's own, and Jeff's half-embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to keep his hand from creeping up to his inner thigh, palming the sweat-damp denim. The long muscle twitches under his palm. The sun beats down on the back of his skull, the exposed nape of his neck. Beneath him, the motorcycle is singing songs of love.

The bulge of his cock is clear and straining in his jeans, now, spurred on by the heat and vibration and the raw sense of being exposed, being out here in this gorgeous emptiness that is his, staked, and yet vulnerable; a car might spin into sight any minute and see him, palming the press of his dick.

"Nnngh." Jeff lifts his chin at the thought, a hot flash of want lancing his stomach, and he tilts up his hips into the flat of his palm, the cradling grasp of fingers. He's harder now, blood pulsing, and the slow slide of a thumb down the spine of his dick sets him gasping, flushing hot and cold for more. Fuck, yeah, he needs more of this, and it doesn't fucking matter that the silence might be shattered any second, the foreign hordes flooding in.

He pops the button on his jeans. It's a tiny gesture, insignificant, but he feels it like a jolt to his heart, setting his pulse ratcheting up. It's another step towards nakedness, being broken open, and some nasty twisted part of him wants that; wants this to be seen. Jeff knows he's got a nice cock, fat and heavy and long. It's pushing up through the splayed vee of his fly by the time he's got the zipper down, straining for his hand, and Jeff doesn't mean to deny it; fuck, no; not now. He's got all the time in the world; or maybe he hasn't. Who cares? He's horny, the rumble of the motorcycle like a second heartbeat in his pelvis. Jeff's going to have this.

There's a tiny damp place on Jeff's boxers where the head of him rests, slick pearling from the slit, and he rubs at it with his thumb, hissing dry through his teeth. _Fuck_. Too late, now, to question it; already, he's snapping the waistband down under his balls, spreading his fly wide. His dick strains hard and upright against his belly, wetness glimmering at the tip, and Jeff curls his fingers around the shaft of it and jacks it slow, at first, working the foreskin back and forth over the head where it's red and gleaming.

The low pulsation of the Harley is enough to amp things up, keep him on slow burn, and the first touch of his thumb to the head makes his hips fuck up off the seat, his voice break. "Shit," he grits, presses his toes harder into the asphalt and spreads his legs wider over his mount. Jesus, _yeah_ , heat flashing through him like the last of summer, and his cock thrusts easier now into his palm, slickness from the crown smearing down over the spine, glistening along the curve of it.

Oh, shit. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Jeff mutters, body jerking, head tipping back as his hand slides smoothly right from base to crown, his long fingers a certain tight tunnel to fuck himself into. It's good, better because he can't help thinking that if anyone were to show up, they'd see all this, the shiny red head of his dick emerging through the circle of his fingers, slipping back home into his fist. Orgasm tugs at his belly, too soon and too deep, and God, Jeff could get there just from this, spurt all over the road, spend himself in the dust. He bites his lip, works his fist faster. No time to linger, after all.

Anywhere else, maybe he'd have brought his other hand into play -- snatched it up off the handlebars of the motorocycle and worked it back behind his balls, teased his perineum. Maybe he'd have gone back further still, worked the tight clench of his hole, but he's in the middle of fucking nowhere and the bike is doing that for him, cradling him in its perpetual motion, sparking off his skin. He can feel his dick swelling, hardening impossibly, and he knows there's no goddamn need for that right now, not with the way his dick is sliding faster through his fist, thumb catching at the slit, thumbing the nerves below the head. Jeff grits his teeth, biting back a cry, and his dick jerks, something rough and half-vocalised creeping in under the edges of his harsh, broken breaths.

"Jesus," he gets out, toes curling in his boots. A hawk circles above. The sun beats down on his back, and Jeff can feel it arrowing down, growing huge in his belly, the push of conquest. "Jesus," he repeats, and then his back is arched and he's coming, shooting white on the brown dirt in long, sticky pulses.

He comes down slowly after, heart pounding in his ears while his cock goes soft and still against his thigh. By his left heel, the desert's soaking him up, taking him in.Mine.

He's almost got his breath back before the car goes past, a station wagon with two kids in the back.

Jeff laughs breathlessly, pushes his sticky hair back off his face, and tucks himself back into his jeans.


End file.
